


The War Outside Our Door Keeps Raging On

by anythingbutplatonic



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 4x09, Angst, Dark Waters, Descriptions of gunshots, Episode Related, F/M, Felicity POV, Felicity's POV of the shooting, Missing Scene Fic, episode reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 18:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutplatonic/pseuds/anythingbutplatonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thought he’d said, “Don’t be scared.”</p><p>It was too late for that.</p><p>Episode reaction/missing scene fic for 4x09 "Dark Waters".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War Outside Our Door Keeps Raging On

****Terror.

Bone-chilling, mind-numbing terror.

That’s what Felicity felt when the first hail of bullets hit the glass and Oliver grabbed her by the waist to flip her onto her back, pressing her against the leather seating of the limo as the windows exploded inwards. 

She was curled up uncomfortably on her side, the cool metal of her ring - her  _engagement ring, her beautiful engagement ring_  - digging into her finger where she clawed for purchase on the slippery leather, willing herself to stay still as she felt Oliver crawl on top of her, shielding her, his voice in her ear, murmuring nonsensical words she couldn’t hear over the guns and the bullets and the hammering of her own heart. 

She thought he’d said, “Don’t be scared.”

It was too late for that. 

Felicity tried to focus on anything  _but_  the gunfire and the dull  _ping ping ping_ of the bullets and the shattering glass, tried to calm her racing heart, tried to think of anything except the Ghosts and Damien Darhk.

Because it  _was_  the Ghosts, wasn’t it? This was Damien’s doing, these were his orders. She had escaped him once, and now he was making them pay.

 _Both_  of them. 

She cast her mind back to the aborted holiday party, to the red dress with the zippers that had made Oliver’s mouth go dry and his eyes darken, to the image of  _her Mom_  dancing with Captain Lance (and, boy, was this the  _only_  time she would ever be thankful for such an image), to meeting Curtis’s husband, to confronting Oliver about his decision (or lack of decision, as it had turned out) to propose, three months ago, in Ivy Town. 

She thought of his smile, the gentle curve of his lips that she loved so much, and the bright blue of his eyes when he told her, “I was going to propose.”

How her heart - not racing, as it was now, hammering against her chest like a beating drum - had swelled, kept swelling, had _burst_  with love, with the love she felt for Oliver and the love she knew he felt for her in return. 

How happy she had felt when he’d told her, purely and simply, that he’d wanted to marry her. 

(She’d wanted to marry him, too. Possibly for even longer than he had wanted to marry her.)

So when he  _did_  propose, taking her by complete surprise - and, really, only Oliver could one-up  _her_  surprise, the Christmas tree-lighting ceremony, with one of his own - in front of all their friends and almost all of their family, there had only been one answer to give. 

_“Felicity Smoak, would you make me the happiest man on the face of the earth?”_

_“Yes.”_

She had said yes. Of course she had said yes. There had never been any doubt in her mind that her answer would be anything other than  _yes, yes, yes!_

There had been slow kisses in the limo, and hand-holding, and the promise of a proper celebration when they got home -  _they were engaged!_  - and then....

Then the car had rolled to a stop.

And the firing had started. 

That was when Oliver - kind, wonderful, devoted,  _protective_  Oliver - had put himself between her and the spray of bullets from the machine guns outside.

She’d wanted to tell him no. To not do it. That she could handle herself. But the words had got stuck in her throat as terror had clawed at her chest, and she tried to concentrate on the feel of the leather seat under her cheek, and the smell of the cold air, and Oliver’s reassuring weight on top of her, warm and solid and strong. 

She  _didn’t_  think about the bullets, or the guns, or the Ghosts. 

By protecting her, Oliver was open to the not-so-friendly fire himself. To say that Felicity was holding her breath that none of the bullets would hit him was an understatement. 

She knew that there was glass all around them, in her hair, in her clothes, cutting at her palms and fingers, and her ring was sure to leave a red mark around her finger where it had been pressed into the skin. Cold air, whistling through the bullet-riddled windows, was sharp against her exposed skin. 

Oliver suddenly lifted himself off of her, scrambling through the gap between the front seats to the driver’s side of the limo. 

He was taking them to safety.

_Please let none of the bullets hit him._

She willed herself to stay still, though her legs were cramping, and her shoulder ached, and her breath was almost painful in her lungs. 

 _Please let it be over soon_.

She could still feel the imprint of him, warm on her back, when the bullet hit her in her exposed right side. 

It was hot. Burning hot. 

And then she couldn’t breathe at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars.


End file.
